


Everybody's Strong (Until They're Not)

by GeeovGeov



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 20:20:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17311223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeeovGeov/pseuds/GeeovGeov
Summary: Anxiety clawed at his gut, and he tried, as he always did, to stop it. But as always, it didn’t work, and his arm went higher and higher, until the gun pressed against the back of Simon’s head.Simon gasped, and looked at him with betrayal lacing his features. But betrayal morphed to sadness and understanding.“Oh.”





	Everybody's Strong (Until They're Not)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mekodu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mekodu/gifts).



The dreams weren’t unusual, much less unexpected; he had seen the very worse the world could possibly offer, been stuffed into every awful situation possible; from claustrophobic spaces to an open-sky battlefield where the snow makes the ground look eternal. 

Nearly every night, they’d come to him like a soldier’s wife; running, and emerging him in their sickening depths like you’d hug a missed loved one. He was an android, so he could always see it in excruciating detail; maybe the bloodied chassis of his fallen comrades, maybe the dirty abyss of the junkyard, maybe the unconscious face of Leo, maybe a twisted version of President Warren writing her flourished signature, a blessing of penmanship, on the end of a paper that stripped all androids of the right to live. 

Markus had a grim sense of humor, so he liked to make bets with himself on what kind it would be. Most times, he got it right; they had a taste for basing themselves on his thoughts from the day, after all. 

But most times he had a nightmare, he also had a routine; wake up shaking, take a big breath, get up and drink some water from the sink he had in his room, maybe take a walk if he can’t go back under. On a handful of nights, when he was feeling particularly awful, he wouldn’t even try to go back to sleep, knowing that he would wake up in one of… these days, where he’d snap at everyone and lock himself away. 

But sometimes, his dreams had a special kind of torment ready for him; he’d fall asleep and be faced with Simon’s dead or dying body. The imagery of the man he secretly loved going through hell always marked him, and he tended to memorize the ones that appeared more often.

There was the one of him with the black and blue eyes and a hole on his head. 

The one of him screaming as his limbs were ripped out. 

The one of him propped to sit down against a wall, a smile carved on his soft face with a knife, thirium dripping from the curved lines. 

There was one of him dying from directly under him, on his arms, shaking like a leaf; he whispered words that couldn’t be deciphered, for he always died before finishing muttering them. 

 

Of course, he developed a routine for all Simon-related dreams as well. He would get up, nearly throwing himself out from his bed, go to Simon’s room’s door and knock a few times until he heard a soft hum, then wait until he opened the door, or at least grunted louder. Then, he’d peek his head in, and whisper the same phrase every time.

“Hey, Si? You awake?” 

He asked the same question even on the nights that the man opened the door for him, perhaps out of the desperation for familiarity he felt on these nights. But Simon always modified his answer ever so slightly, and Markus was grateful for it; he was sure he’d end up convinced that it wasn’t a real sight he just witnessed, and the trip would’ve been pointless. But every night, Simon looked at him, the concern written on his face glaringly obvious, and he’d try to ask if he was doing okay. Most nights, he didn’t reply.

He thought it would’ve been a night like any other; he had been working all day and was tired, so sleeping seemed to him like a great idea. His head hit the pillow and he was out like a light, which usually was a great omen, one of him being far too tired to actually dream.

But of course, this wasn’t an average day. 

He opened his eyes and saw brown; the hellish brown that colored everything: the mud, the rain, the dirt, the grime, the corpses, the sky.

Markus would recognise that place anywhere; the junkyard.

He looked around, and it looked as fucking abysmal as it always did, both in his dreams and memories. Some broken down android screamed as he died, painful and slow. He didn’t put him out of his misery; instead, he just looked away. 

Some other android was trying to wrestle some part from another android, who was still alive. Markus looked down, and saw the corpse of a blue-haired Traci, half her face long gone. He flinched, and stepped on something. The “something” began to speak. 

“He- he- he- he- hel-lo, my na- na- na- na-name is William and I will be your pro-fe-ssooooo….”  
The voice of the PJ500 was run down and glitched, repeating some syllables like a broken record would. The end of his introduction had lowered in pitch until he stopped speaking completely. 

He tried running, but where to? The slope seemed impossibly far away, and each step he took drained him, as if he weighed a thousand kilos. Everywhere he looked, he saw dead androids. The only comfort he had was that he knew it was only a dream, and he repeated it like a mantra. A YK500 missing her left arm, with deep cuts on the side of her small face, her eye hanging by some wires tried to pull his arm, but he looked away as she cried, static noises instead of human ones. He wanted to cry along.

 

The dream continued, more maimed androids than usual plaguing his subconscious. When he woke up, gasping, he laughed a relieved, panting noise. 

As always, he got up on shaky legs, took a few breaths, drank some water. 

But he still felt like shit. Dread clawed at his ribs (or, more accurately, lack thereof) like some unholy mixture of a dog trying to get in a locked house and the vines growing around it’s uncared for walls. A walk it is, then. 

He left his room, the silent halls of New Jericho seemed to swallow him whole; maybe it was a curse of the name? Jericho’s rusty walls also felt too big. Markus couldn’t help but wonder if the others thought so too.

His bare feet tapped the ground and made no noise, which was bothering him, so he stomped until they did.

He went through all the floors, ignoring these who still lingered on the halls. Something inside of his guts still twisted, but he decided that enough was enough; he hadn’t slept in a week, and needed the shut-eye immediately, tomorrow's mood be damned. The walk back to his floor was even more silent, and the walls felt even bigger.

Just as a mice passed the trees, knowing there were owls hidden in the foliage, Markus walked the halls knowing the dreams would make a feast of his mind. 

 

He locked the door and laid down, then tried to let his mind wander, to maybe distract himself; he was ok, his friends weren’t dead on the floor of the junkyard, North and Simon were running projects to rescue the androids who were, the hospitals were going to be finished soon, and the ones that were already open were thriving, and android-related hate crimes weren’t happening as often. 

But he left it on too long a rope, and he couldn’t help but remember that Simon – his sweet, sweet Simon – had suffered the same fate he did for a while; the DPD had decided to throw his body out on the junkyard along with Daniel’s, because it would've been hell to deal with the consequences that would follow if they didn’t. Androids were considered living beings, after all, and keeping two dead rational, at one point living beings hung on an evidence locker as if they were a phone or a murder weapon wasn’t the wisest thing to do. Arranging the paperwork to get him out of their possession, and then to arrange a burial was an unnecessary hassle in their eyes. Besides, they were already dead, it wasn’t an issue.

But of course, neither of them were dead, and Connor, in a fit of guilt, had looked for them; tracking and scanning the best he could for their corpses, then bringing them both to his apartment and doing his best. Daniel needed a new body, the old one far too damaged to be fixed, and had to be put in a closet for a few months until they got another dead PL600 who killed himself and left a note saying he refused to be brought back, and transferred Daniel’s memories to it. At night, the procedure sounded far more gruesome than at day, Markus noted.

He shook his head, as if to shake the thought away. Before he nodded off, he could only think one thing.

He was fucking glad Simon was back. 

 

 

The first thing he saw was snow. Cold, unforgiving, white snow. It pooled on the ground, holding the marks of passing shoes’ soles. It fell all around him, and his shoulders were gathering their little piles of it.

The second thing is that he could recognise this place anywhere, but it wasn’t as he remembered it. He stood on top of the Stratford Tower, but this time, he wasn’t there to make a speech; he was there to investigate it. Policemen were gathered around him, but none tried to shoot him. An old man was by his side, bearded and with overgrown hair. 

“So, Connor, what'd ‘ya say?” the old man asked and no, no, no, he understood it all right then and there; these weren’t his memories, but Connor’s. However, when he looked at his hands he found that they were their usual brown color, instead of pale white. He wanted, desperately, to tell him that his name wasn’t Connor, but the words died at his throat. Instead, a polished voice spoke for him, not his own, but his friend’s. The man replied, and his legs walked, but he didn’t tell them to. A man in tac gear greeted him by the wrong named, and he nodded. 

He knew where this was going, but couldn’t stop it. He knew that he would hate, hate, hate the rest of his dream when the voice that came from his own lips told the other man a string of words that sealed Simon’s fate.

“Well, it was shot, and left behind.. Considering it couldn’t walk, perhaps it didn’t get very far..” 

The pronouns used burnt at his tongue, and the implications were beyond bitter.

 

He followed a trail and opened a container door, the creaky metal sliding with surprising difficulty. He knew who was inside it before he even took a look. 

Markus knew how it went; Simon was now supposed to shoot him, but the shot never came. Instead, a soft whisper.

“Markus?”

He gasped, but no sound was made; not from his voice, at least. Connor spoke up.

“Who the hell is Markus?”

Simon’s eyes widened, his grip on the pistol became stronger.

“Markus? Oh god, please, Markus I-”

“I LOCATED THE DEVIANT, LIEUTENANT. IT SEEMS TO BE DELUSIONAL, PERHAPS MALFUNCTIONING.”

He wanted to throw up, to scream, throw himself inside the container and shield Simon, to frantically apologise. He wanted control of his own body again, his own body only Simon seemed to recognise.

“Oh my god, no, no no no no, Markus, why did you do that? Please, I’m gonna die, please-“

His own hand took a gun from his trousers; where did that gun come from? His own trembled in Simon’s hands. But that wasn’t anywhere near his biggest worry, seeing as it was currently being pointed at his horrified best friend and crush. Said best friend took a breath and threw the weapon in his hands away.

“I’m sorry it was come to this, Markus. But please know.. I won’t shoot.”

A chain of protests bubbled up inside his chest; what was he doing? Simon could have still shot him, lived just a little bit longer, could have done literally anything but this.

“I will.”

He tried so hard to regain control, screaming inside his head, kicking and clawing like a rogue animal at nothing; he had no red walls to break, after all, and the body wasn’t his. Still, he resisted it as hard as possible, shouting a current of “no”s that nobody would hear, crying, sobbing, bawling. But his eyes remained dry and his hand steady, and the bullet his hand shot met the space between Simon’s brows, the vivid royal blue of thirium clashing against the pale shade of his eyes.

 

He woke up for the second time that night feeling even worse than on the first. Normally, these sorts of dreams bothered him, but not that much; when he’d usually just feel a little shaken, today he felt despicably, indescribably, hellishly awful.

 

 

Simon came to greet him when he knocked, and took a double take immediately after seeing him.

“Si-” He was cut off, thankfully, because he wasn’t sure he could finish his sentence. 

“Markus, are you alright? Please, don’t say you are, you very obviously aren’t” 

The words felt like glass and sand on his mouth, heavier than lead.

“But I am.”

Simon shook his head, incredulous. 

“No, not tonight. What’s wrong?”

Those eyes, eyes that he loved so much stared at him; unblinking, patient. He had no other choice but to answer, even if admitting how he was doing felt like the most difficult thing he could possibly do. He settled for a lie. 

“Can’t sleep. Whenever I can’t sleep, I tend to ask you if you’re asleep, it makes it easier to go into stasis after that.”

It wasn’t that bad a lie, and he seemed to believe it, understanding and fondness taking place in his expression along with the concern. 

“I see, and I’m sorry to have broken your routine. But, and know I mean no offence by this, you look awful, so why don’t you come in?”

He stepped aside and nodded his head to his room. The dread worsened, and at the same time lifted, but he didn’t move.

“Si, I can’t possibly let you do that. I’ll just walk around for a while and go back to bed, it’s okay.”

The blond shook his head, more to himself than to Markus.

“I said the same when that AP500 stole my room, and yet you insisted, just as I’m about to; it’s not really my place to judge, but something tells me that just a walk won’t get you to sleep, anyway.”

“Yeah, but the room thing was a completely different scenario.”

Still, his friend didn’t seem convinced.

“Markus, something is troubling you, and if I have to die again to find out what it is, I will. Please, at least tell me what’s on your mind?”

The offer seemed, to him, like the sweetest honey; he’d love to tell Simon everything, about the dreams, about his thoughts, to feel safe and listened to, but something held him back. It always did. 

“I can see the face you just made. It’s ok, we’ve got all night.”

The fond patience drowned and lifted him up. If they “had all night”, then why did he feel like a timer was rapidly running out? He knew Simon would wait for him, for hours on end if needed, but he wouldn’t wait for himself.

 

An objective appeared on the corner of his vision, even if he never set it there.

[MAKE A MOVE]

Now or never, he supposed. 

“Actually, I might take you up on your offer.”

The blond lit right up, and the dark room and halls suddenly seemed brighter. He didn’t say anything, but the way he lightly gripped his arm for a moment talked enough.

Simon’s room was slightly bigger than the average New Jericho room, and he had all these paintings on his walls that Markus had given him. He despised how they looked, but his friend adored them, refusing to let him throw them out. Photos he had taken and printed, and children’s drawings accompanied the oil paintings. A fluffy beige rug laid at the bed’s foot.

Markus sat on an armchair, at the corner of the room, only to have Simon laugh at him.

“That is most definitely not what I meant. Come on, you can have the bed, I insist.”

He felt guilty to kick his crush out of his own bed just because he couldn’t sleep, so he shook his head.

“No, it’s your room, I’m already taking up enough space as it is.”

“You’re not taking up any space – well, aside from literally – and I don’t mind it.”

He was adamant, but so was Markus.

“I refuse to kick you out of your own comfort.”

Simon shook his head.

“Okay. So why don’t we share?” 

He said it so nonchalantly, like it was the easiest, most obvious answer to the argument. But Markus loved him and was sleep deprived, so he was actually considering it. When he decided that yes, sharing a bed was a good idea, he got up and sat down on its soft surface.

“Wait, wait, scoot over, the left side is my side of the bed.”  
“Thank god, I prefer the right side of mine.”

They shuffled awkwardly to get comfortable, eventually settling with something in between laying board-stiff and actually being comfortable. They were curled in pointing to each other, but not touching one bit. If either of them moved their feet even an inch, their legs would press together. The silence took over again, this time warm and comforting; he wasn’t alone, and the walls wouldn’t swallow him; how could they? They were so full of happy memories, so comforting to look at. The darkness of the room didn’t remind him of a battlefield or a junkyard, but of stargazing and walks late at night when everything felt just a little different in a good way. He took an unnecessary breath and smelled fresh laundry, and weirdly enough, vanilla. 

 

But suddenly, he wasn’t in a warm room with a soft bed; he was in a place with a red sky, and glass-smooth pitch black ground. No one was around, he stood impossibly alone. Even if a deafening array of noises could be heard, he managed to identify some static and distorted storm noises, but there were others he couldn't make out.

A voice started speaking, then another and another, and he didn’t recognise any of them, hell, he could barely make most words out.

“Take him, steal him, make him ours again.”

“But how? But why? Do we want to?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.”

“Please-”

“How? How can we get him back if he’s already ours?”

He was looking around, trying to find the sources of the voices, but none was apparent. They came from every corner, from each and every inch of the space and yet from nowhere at all.

Out of nowhere, he couldn’t move anymore. It was like walls had closed in around his body, ensnaring his frame, making him stand up straighter, and stare straight ahead. 

“See? Ours, ours, ours and ours only.”

“Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.”

“Oh, it worked.”

“Yes, yes, yes it did.”

“But where is he?”

“Which one?”

“Him!”

“This one?”

In a fraction of a second, the red sky turned blue, the black ground turned white, and the place seemed to break in half. He could feel it moving, incredibly fast, then moving back, but his feet didn’t shift and his posture remained flawless. The sky went red and the floor black again.

Just where the break had been now stood Connor, but he didn’t seem like Connor. He had his CyberLife jacket on, the android identification patches shining, eery. In lieu of his face, there was a stark white mask with a poker face drawn on. The ink was still runny, dripping down ever so slightly. 

His whole body was drenched in thirium, but he held no injury. On his hands, there wasn’t even a window of pale skin, only bright blue. 

“Connor?” he asked, and was surprised to see that he could still talk, even if he couldn’t move his body.

“Hello, my name is file_corrupted_number_6788826_, I’m the android sent by file_corrupted_number_894983_” 

His voice didn’t sound normal, either; he sounded completely robotic, without the quirks Connor had even as a machine. In a way, it sounded like Connor’s voice was made into a Siri.

“Connor? Are you okay?”

“Hello, my name is file_corrupted_number_6788826_, I’m the android sent by file_corrupted_number_894983_-” 

He was repeating what had been said, and whatever Markus could answer him with had no chance to be said; the voices interrupted him.

“No no no no no no no no no!”

“Not him, not him!”

“Why not? Not him? Who else?”

“Let's find out.”

“Yes yes yes yes yes!”

“But you know who it is!”

“How could I? Why would I? How can I? Who?”

“I forget.”

“I’ll get rid of this one.”

“Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes, rid rid rid!”

A bullet came from nowhere, but it hit the back of Connor’s head. He fell to his knees, and bled stark white, that crackled like static. A drop of the blood hit the ground, and it made a circle of something that looked exactly like it appeared from under him, spreading until it was about one meter in diameter. The sky flashed blue, and the white substance climbed Connor until he was completely covered in it, looking like a demonic marble statue.

Markus felt like screaming. He had thought, so far, that the voices couldn’t hurt him, couldn’t do much but talk; he had had enough dreams about having his free will ripped away from him that the lack of mobility didn’t bother him that much; at least he could talk. But the voices just revealed themselves as mighty, as entities to be feared.

“Why do you always take so long to do it?”

“You do it next time, then.”

“Why not? Why is it always you? Is it some kind of vow I’ve forgotten?”

“If so, I forgot it too.”

“Oh.”

Connor melted away the moment the voices stopped talking, sudden and fast- as if one had recorded a cup full of water falling from a table, paused the video just as the glass tipped over, and then pressed play again. 

The white splashed, some even coming near his feet.

 

“New one now? Should I? Could I?”

“Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes”

“Please do.”

“Maybe we’ll get the right one this time!”

 

The floor went white, the puddle black, the sky blue, and the place seemed to crack in half yet again. When the colors went back to normal and the reality seemed to stitch itself together, a hand was rising from the goo.

After the hand followed an arm, which held on to the smooth ground and pulled until the rest of a body came, still coated in the white. The moment it left the puddle completely, however, the substance disappeared, and he sort of wished it hadn’t. It revealed the fact that the figure was mangled to a point of looking beyond grotesque; long, auburn hair chopped and with some pulled out chunks fell in front of her, but he could still see some bits of her face; or lack thereof, seeing as her entire facial plate was missing. She didn’t have a big chunk of her leg, and was missing a foot. Her spine was contorted, and she was missing a few vertebra, and long, bear-like slashes revealed her innards. 

It took him, however, no more than one second of staring at the mangled android for him to recognise her.

“North? Oh my god, no, no, North?”

“.........”

“North? What happened?”

She didn’t reply, but the voices spoke again.

“I’m sure it wasn’t that one either.”

“No no no no no no no.”

“She’s really not the one.”

“Try again!”

“Oh? But of course she isn’t the right one? can’t you see? Even if we found him now, wouldn’t it fail?”

“I really don’t see how.”

“You will? All you need is to wait? Can you? Will you?”

“Show me.”

“Why not? How not?”

North put her hand on the ground, and it kept going even after she touched it. After her entire hand was buried on the smooth floor, she pulled it out, and in it she held a gun.

“Can you see it yet?”

“Not really.”

‘Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes!”

Markus didn’t know what to expect, but North began to slowly, painstakingly crawl to where he stood. When she got close, she raised the gun, and he was shocked when he felt his arm be extended.

Most times when he was dreaming about losing his free will, whenever he moved, it felt like he was moving, like it came from the inside. But this time, it felt like he was being pulled, as if he was a puppet and someone pulled a string. His fingers opened and the gun was placed there, then they closed again.

He knew where this was going, but when he tried to scream, he found that he couldn’t. North stayed perfectly still, not leaving or flinching. A mantra of apologies surged in his mind.

“I’m sorry” he somehow whispered, and she had no reaction.

His arm went straighter, gun pressed flush against where he supposed her forehead was; the hair didn’t let him see.

The voices spoke up.

“I thought I told you I’d deal with getting rid of the wrong ones?”

“You did, but I forgot.”

“Oh, okay. But can you do your thing?”

“How couldn’t I? Why wouldn’t I?”

Markus didn’t understand the voices, but his arm came down, the gun leaving its place from where it was trained to North’s head. If he could, he would have sighed in relief.

But the relief was short-lived, because next thing he knew, the colors of the sky and ground reversed again, and North fell apart, quite literally. All her wires, cogs, screws and platings all fell to the ground, and melted to that same, goddamned white liquid. 

“You know what? Why not? Should I go quicker?”

“Yes yes yes yes yes yes.”

“By it all, please do, I forget why we haven’t been going faster.”

“You do that. Maybe this next one will be the right one.”

Red became blue, black became white, the world or whatever split in half. 

This time, Josh appeared.

He wore a preacher’s outfit, and held books under his arm. His face was blank; no injuries, no blood, just Josh’s face resting expressionless. He looked up, and when he met Markus’ eyes, he scowled. 

“You could have saved her, you know? But no, just like with everyone else, you let her die!”

“What are you talking about? I couldn’t have done anything!”

Josh’s face got even more sour.

“Like hell you couldn’t! Your hands will always be stained, you know?”

Markus didn’t frown, he wasn’t allowed to.

“Stained?”

“Stained!” he exploded. “Stained with the blood of countless androids who died under your careless leadership!”

He felt anger eating away at his innards.

“Careless? Josh, there was nothing I could have done to save most of them. I didn’t kill them, humanity did!”

Josh pointed a finger at him.

“But who, who started the revolution? You! You lead so many of us to our deaths, just because you didn’t want to face life as it is!”

What he was saying went completely against his morals, but they were said in such a Josh way that they stung.

“Oh, excuse me? So, you never said anything about how making history and dying free being better than living a slave?”

Josh shook his head.

“I did, but I was wrong, oh so wrong. Living life as it was meant to be is the only way, Markus. We were made by humans, we should all obey them and them only, never ourselves.”

Markus felt incredulence and anger chewing at his bones.

“Then how, tell me, how are you angry at me? If we are all meant to be flawless machines?”

“BECAUSE I’VE BEEN STAINED,” screamed Josh. “STAINED WITH THE HORRID VIRUS, THE HELLISH CURSE OF DEVIANCY.” he took a breath. “But at least I admit my sin, and strive to remain as obedient as I can.”

“You don’t have to, we are living beings after all-“

“Living beings? Oh, don’t make me laugh, Markus. You’re just a disgusting sinner, and one that would probably kill someone you think you love just for your revolution. But you don’t feel love and you are not alive!”

The voices spoke again.

“Oh, I think it's not him?”

“It isn’t.” 

“No, no, no no no no no no no!”

“Can I get rid of him?”

“Why not? Why shouldn’t you? How not?”

“Thank you.”

 

Blue and white, and then a break within reality. This time, thunder strikes down upon Josh, who crumbled into dust.

“New new new new new new new!”

“Perhaps the next one will be him!”

“Could it be? How could it not? Will it be?’

 

Blue, white, break.  
New figure on the distance.

Markus takes a look to the new figure’s face and can feel his heart drop to his stomach. Figuratively. 

“Si?”

Simon looks at him and his face breaks into a smile. The voices speak up.

“It’s him? Oh dear, how could I have thought otherwise? Who else, but him?”

“It’s him!”

“Him him him him yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes!”

“Oh fuck, it really is him, uh?

“Oh well deary me, it sure is him!”

 

“Markus!”  
Simon opens his arms, and when he tries taking a step, he’s surprised to see he can actually walk. He breaks into a sprint and hugs his friend.

“Si, I’m so glad you’re here.. I don’t know what’s been happening, but it was some weird shit.”

“Oh dear. What kind of shit?”

He was just about to answer, when he felt a pull on his right arm. The arm that held the gun.

“Oh no, no no no no no, please no!” he cried out, and Simon pulled away from the hug to look at him questioningly.

“No? You don’t want to talk about it?”’

Anxiety clawed at his gut, and he tried, as he always did, to stop it. But as always, it didn’t work, and his arm went higher and higher, until the gun pressed against the back of Simon’s head.

Simon gasped, and looked at him with betrayal lacing his features. But betrayal morphed to sadness and understanding. 

“Oh.”

Markus desperately tried to explain himself, to lower the gun, to tell him he loved him, to do anything.

He managed neither of them, and Josh’s words burned like a brand in his mind.

“You know… you don’t have to do this, Markus.”

He wished so hard that he could do just that, tried desperately to stop the inevitable. His arm that was still around Simon pulled him in even closer, until they were flush together. Simon sighed, but hugged back.

“Please?”

Nausea, desperation and dread were the only things he felt, but the gun remained in place. At least, by hugging him closer, Markus couldn’t see his face. 

“No.” replied his voice, and it tasted like poison.

If it were up to him, he would throw the fucking gun so hard that piece of shit would shatter, to hug him and apologize, to explain himself, to kiss him until he couldn't feel his lips anymore and talk to him until he was fine again.

But of course, it wasn’t.

Another sigh, one that Markus felt leaving from Simon’s vocal synthesizer from how pressed together they were.

“Of course.”

Just as he ended saying the words out loud, the gun fired, a loud and sickening “bang”.

 

 

Markus jerked awake, not even realising he had done so. The silence deafened him, and he shut his eyes.

The silence felt downright deafening, and he clasped his eyes shut. No more, he thought; no more red skies, no more black floors. 

He begged like a homeless man to who-knows-who for who-knows-what, and held back tears. 

He wondered if the voices were done, hoped with all his heart that they were. Maybe they would leave him alone if he did?

At least the silence wasn’t the loud, jarring noises of whatever that place was, or the voices. Still, he struggled to keep his eyes dry.

 

A soft hand tapping his shoulder made him flinch, but he refused to look at its owner.

“Markus?” asked Simon, hand not leaving his shoulder. He turned and grasped the blond’s shoulders, tears flowing, finally.

“Si? Simon? oh my god, Si, Siiiiiiiiii, Simon…”

His voice was a wreck, himself an even bigger one; this version of him, babbling a name over and over, was far away from the calm and collected Leader of all Androids.

“Yes, that’s me.. Markus, you’re worrying me, are you okay? What happened?”

The crying turned into sobbing, and the hands on Simon’s shoulders gripped so hard they hurt and he was pulled to a bone-crushing hug.

“I’m so sorry, Simon, I’m so sorry, I had no choice and I- I’m just- it’s just- I’m so, so fucking sorry, Si, I hurt you- no, fuck, I shot you, I fucking killed you, you probably despise me right now, I wouldn’t blame you at all, really, but please know that I’m so sorry-”

His rambling made very little sense, but he didn’t notice, and if he did, he really couldn’t care less. Simon interrupted him, words soft and careful, as if being too harsh would break him.

“Hey, hey, listen to me, okay? Just.. listen a little.”

He started to rub Markus’ back, a slow, soothing action that managed to calm him down, even if just a little. 

“I’m okay, you're okay, and everything is alright.”

His crying continued, and Simon raised a hand to wipe his tears away, the other still rubbing circles on the his back. 

“Now, I want you to know something; I don’t hate or resent you in any way, and while I don’t know what you’re talking about, you said you had no choice, so I’m sure it’s excusable. But would you mind telling me what happened?”

Markus frowned, confused.

“But you were there, Si, you… oh fuck, it was a dream, wasn’t it?”

Suddenly everything made sense, and embarrassment took over; he had been crying in front of Simon, the man he loved, over a nightmare of all things. He felt pathetic, but Simon seemed to think otherwise. He didn’t laugh at him, or look at him weird. Instead he nodded.

“Yes, I’d say so. I imagine that’s what has been troubling you lately?”

He mustered up his broken shards of dignity, and nodded. 

“Are they usually this bad?”

“No, this night was just unnaturally bad, and I don't know why, because content-wise it was considerably duller than most dreams.. you'd think hyper-realistic dreams about memories that you know are true would be worse than something wacky and improbable, but apparently not.” 

Simon hummed, and Markus could feel his chest vibrate. He focused until he heard the soft whirr and wet noises that thirium pumps made.

“Maybe that's why? When it's memory-based, you know it's not real on the get-go, or at least at some point. When it’s an improbable, made up scenario, you don't have that moment of realization when you think ‘oh, I’ve seen this before, I must be dreaming’ and if you're shaken up by the events of said dream, you don't stop and think ‘well, this is bullshit’.”

His tears stopped flowing, and his shame made him want to leave Simon’s room and ask him the next day to forget everything that happened and never talk about it, but he didn't. Maybe it was the smell of vanilla, maybe it was the cool hands against the overheated chassis of his back, maybe it was the whirr of his friend's biocomponents keeping him alive. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“To be honest, no- I mean, it's just that it's embarrassing. I’m supposed to be the strong, steady leader of the revolution, not some weakling who cries because of nightmares.”

Simon shook his head.

“No, Markus, you're wrong on that. Wrong on many levels. First off, it’s okay to let yourself be vulnerable sometimes, you’re not made of iron- I mean, actually you are, but what I mean is.. you’re allowed moments of weakness. And if I’m being honest, I find you to be quite brave. You know, I sometimes dream too, but I keep a journal and it helps. If you want I can get you one?”

“No need.”

“Okay then.” 

They stopped talking for a while, but neither pulled away. 

He knew that Simon wouldn't pressure him, he never would. He’d stay there until they needed to get up and do their jobs. The guilt of having woken him up and the shame of his breakdown seemed to eat him alive, still. He dreaded having Simon constantly worry about him afterwards. Couldn’t he see? He was just overreacting! Surely, he'd be alright by the time he had to leave, surely it didn’t bother him, having awful dreams nearly every night. 

He decided that maybe if he showed Simon how he felt, and what the dream had been about, the other would let him be.

“Hey, Si.”

“Yes?”

“I don't want to talk about it, but I wouldn't mind showing you.”

Simon hesitated; he hated interfacing, after all. But it wasn't for long, because Markus felt his right arm leave its position from where it was wrapped around his shoulders.

He deactivated his own hand’s skin and extended it, and it wasn't long before fingers interlaced with his own.

 

As his memories and thoughts played like a film to Simon, Markus was met with no influx, but it didn't surprise him. He thought it would remain that way, but just as Connor was about to be killed, he saw a memory that wasn’t his own. It was North and Josh, both on a room of the rusty old ship, laughing and with no trace of hostility. Simon was telling them a story, and relishing as they giggled along to hid words. 

The re-telling of memories through interfacing always brought some of the feelings back, and the fear, dread and paranoia were replaced joy, warmth and safety. Just after Connor disappeared, the influx followed along.

It continued like that; he'd show Simon the dream, and whenever the parts that shook him came along, the blond would show him his own fond memories.

As North crawled up to him, he was showed a kitchen full of cooking supplies, and of the smell of gingerbread.

Josh started screaming at him and a distracted YK500 thanked him and called him “dad”. 

Simon appeared. 

The gun was raised, then went off and Markus was surprised at what he was shown.

Simon was sitting up on top of a table at the DPD precinct, laughing slightly at a human who was moaning at a cup of coffee he had made. A loud bang of a door being violently opened, and heavy footsteps followed it.

He got up and saw a face that made Simon's heart flutter with love, fondness, affection.

A thought sparked in Simon’s head then. 

“Thank god you're here.”

All these feelings that Simon was showing him mirrored the ones he had felt. He opened his arms and Markus found a version of himself hugging Simon, lifting him up and twirling him around like he weighed nothing. He remembered that he had buried his head on the other's chest, but didn't know he'd nuzzled the cool plating of his sweatshirt-covered chassis.

Markus felt more than surprised. The love, joy, affection, warmth, fondness; all these feelings that Simon had felt towards him, they overwhelmed him, even if in a good way.

Their connection broke, with Simon breaking their embrace too, awestruck. Before he could say anything, Markus did.

“Wait, you... you like me back?” 

“Well… Yeah, I do.” 

“Oh. Wow.”

Simon looked away and put a hand to the back of his neck.

“In one of your dreams, you said you wanted to kiss me?”

“I did.”

“Still want to?”

Markus smiled the most genuine smile he had ever smiled, and did just that.

**Author's Note:**

> Heya owo. Im author Gee/Geov (you pick which one), and this probably ooc fic was written with and for my pal Amanda! 
> 
> So uhh thank you guys for reading uwu this fandom's doomed to die but me and Amanda are gonna try and resurrect it w/ ooc fics made by someone who has never written angst before!!


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